


Mr. Campion's Curse

by SpaceTimeConundrum



Series: The Werewolf of Bottle Street [1]
Category: Albert Campion - Margery Allingham
Genre: Alternate Universe, Curses, Gen, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 10:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5044513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceTimeConundrum/pseuds/SpaceTimeConundrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the witch's curse in <i>Look to the Lady</i> turns out to have more <b>teeth</b> to it than anyone expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Campion's Curse

**Author's Note:**

> This tale was inspired by a bit of dialogue from _Mystery Mile_ : _"I shall never forget,” he went on, pulling at his pipe, “when we were up at Cambridge, hearing Albert explain to the porter after midnight that he was a werewolf out on his nightly prowl who had unexpectedly returned to his own shape before he had time to bound over the Coll railings."_ It made me wonder what a werewolf Campion might be like, and then, of course, I remembered that time our poor hero got himself cursed by a witch...
> 
> Happy Halloween and happy reading!

_“I curse ye,” she said with concentrated hatred in her voice which was uncommonly disconcerting. “I curse ye by a right line, a crooked line, a simple and a broken. By flame, by wind, by water, by a mass, by rain, and by clay. By a flying thing, by a creeping thing, by a sarpint. By an eye, by a hand, by a foot, by a crown, by a crost, by a sword and by a scourge I curse ye. Haade, Mikaded, Rakeben, Rika, Rita lica, Tasarith, Modeca, Rabert, Tuth, Tumeh.”_ \- _Look to the Lady_ (1931), by Margery Allingham

– 

Mr. Albert Campion was very much aggrieved. In spite of a few rather curious experiences over the course of a brief but eventful adventurous career, he had, he’d thought, a reasonably good grasp of the difference between reality and fantasy. His present circumstances, however, had shaken that confidence to the core. Never before in all of his twenty-nine years had his conviction in his own powers of reasoning come so perilously close to shattering altogether as at that very moment, in which he found himself standing in a back alley in central London, unaccountably completely naked. 

In an earlier century, the narrow passage in which he now stood had been used for supplying carriages, the mews subsequently converted to garages when the horseless variety had arrived on the scene. Campion had awoken at first light and discovered that he’d been using a pile of oily rags behind a stack of used tyres as his bedding. Two thoughts had struck him immediately after opening his eyes. One, he was lying out of doors without a scrap of clothing on, and two, he hadn’t the faintest idea how he’d gotten there. 

It was the sort of mad scenario one might expect to encounter in a fevered dream, and its persistence as apparent fact both appalled and terrified him. 

His recollection of the previous evening was sketchy at best. He remembered feeling restless and oddly confined at his flat, so he’d told Lugg not to expect him until late and left to wander about Piccadilly on foot. Beyond that, he only had a vague sense that he’d been running, chasing something perhaps? There’d been bright lights and an almost overpowering smell of exhaust and rotting food.

Come to think of it, that smell hadn’t exactly abated since he’d woken up. He sniffed the air and grimaced as the raw odours of London flooded his senses. Automotive exhaust, wet earth, smoke, rubbish, cooking smells, mildew, and sewage predominated while layered over the top of it all was a distinctly metallic note that Campion faintly recognised. 

_Blood._

He could smell blood, and it was close by.

Anxiously, he looked round, expecting to find a body practically underfoot if the scent was that powerful. He couldn’t spot anything suspicious though, until he looked down at his hands and saw that they were splattered with dried brown streaks of the stuff.

Horrified, he staggered back against the nearest wall and frantically checked himself over for injuries. He was filthy from having slept outside, chilly, and a little sore, but otherwise apparently unharmed. Touching his face, however, he made an unpleasant discovery; his mouth and chin felt oddly sticky, and rubbing at it caused a shower of reddish brown flakes to come off on his hands.

His mind immediately grasped at the most plausible explanation with relief. He’d been victim of a robbery, that was all, and the villain who’d done it to him must have struck him in the process. That would explain the blood on his face and hands and the lack of memory easily. 

It didn’t explain why his assailant had elected to deprive him of even his undergarments, but Campion was prepared to admit that even he could be surprised by the idiosyncrasies of the modern criminal mind. Anything else he thought he remembered about the night before must have been a product of his addled imagination.

Having settled in his mind what had happened to him, with deliberate disregard for the rather serious lingering misgivings he still had, Campion redirected his thoughts into solving his most pressing problem. He was presently somewhere in London, with neither clothing nor currency in his possession. How on earth was he going to get home like this?

A more thorough search of the immediate area produced a ratty bit of material that at one point might have resembled a rough blanket, but whose ancient fibres had seen far healthier days. It was large enough to drape about his shoulders and wrap around his slender frame, preserving a modicum of modesty, but negligible dignity. Unfortunately, it also smelt as though the original sheep who’d produced the wool had died whilst still wearing it.

With an eye on the brightening sky, Campion hurried out of the alley, eager to find a public telephone as swiftly as possible. Presently it was still early enough that the streets were largely unoccupied, but that wouldn’t last for very long. 

He walked six blocks before coming to one of those cheerful red structures that had so recently become the predominant guise of the London telephone call box. Stepping inside it with a sigh of relief, he lifted the handset to dial the operator. He would have to reverse the charges and hope that Lugg had the sense to accept them on behalf of his employer. 

Mercifully, his friend and self-styled gentleman’s gentleman received the call. “'Ullo?” Magersfontein Lugg’s sepulchral voice came over the wire. “Wot’s up? I figgered you’d’ve been back hours ago or ‘least rung before now.”

Campion’s voice sounded higher than usual as he spoke into the receiver. “I’ve run into a bit of trouble I’m afraid, wound up on the wrong side of town. Through no fault of my own, I assure you. Would you mind terribly getting out the old bus and running over here to fetch me? And, ah, bring a fresh change of clothes along for me, would you? I’ll explain more when you get here.” He gave Lugg the address listed on the telephone box and rung off.

Rather than wait outside, exposed in the cool morning air, Campion hid in the booth until he saw the old Bentley come rattling around the corner. He stepped out to flag down its driver, still clutching at his ghastly makeshift robe with one hand to hold it closed. Lugg very nearly didn’t recognise him dressed like this, so he was near enough that Campion could see his eyes widen like saucers when he did. He braked so quickly that he stalled the engine and the car came to a sputtering halt at the kerb.

Lugg climbed out of the automobile wearing a horrified expression. “Lumme!” he exclaimed. “Wot the ‘ell ‘appened to you?”

“I’m not sure,” said his employer, testily. “Spare me the Inquisition for now. Home, please.”

Lugg looked as though he had several very good questions in mind, but he held his tongue and obeyed the order, holding the car door open for Campion. The young man slid gratefully into the confines of the rear seat and seized upon the bundle of clothes he found waiting there. Lugg resumed his position behind the wheel and raised a curious eyebrow at him in the mirror.

“You 'urt, cock?” he asked in a somewhat subdued tone before reaching for the starter. The old convict seemed genuinely worried about him.

Campion shook his head. “No. Or at least if I am, it’s nothing serious. Someone’s jolly well had a go at my face, I think, but I can’t remember the incident and it doesn’t ache, so I shan’t complain.” He was attempting to wrangle his long legs into a pair of trousers without exposing himself. A proper bath would be the first order of business when he got home, he decided, but for now it was simply a blessed relief to dispense with that wretched rug.

Lugg grunted and started the engine, turning the nose of the old car towards Piccadilly.

Once he’d finished dressing himself, Campion had an opportunity to reflect on some of the oddities relating to that morning's misadventure which had escaped his full attention thus far, such as why all of his senses seemed to be operating in such a peculiarly heightened state. Even now, in the warmth and safety of the car, his nose was reporting with unnerving specificity the exact scent profile of all its occupants. Lugg smelled of soap, tobacco, laundry starch, sweat, and something sour he couldn’t readily identify. The car itself smelled of oil, metal, old canvas, petrol, and leather.

He tried not to focus on what he himself smelt like; thanks to his temporary robe, it was almost unbearably rank. He balled up the filthy rug and attempted to shove it under the seat, but that did nothing to get rid of the stink in the confined space. He resigned himself to breathing through his mouth for the duration of their journey.

He also noticed that although he wasn’t wearing his spectacles, he could clearly read the small print on signs of passing shops and pick out the details of leaves on trees. The possibility that he’d suffered concussion and that this was somehow effecting his perceptions occurred to Campion and he frowned unhappily. He couldn't help feeling that there was something else, something not quite right about himself, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. It would come to him eventually.

When they arrived at Bottle Street, Campion slipped out of the car quietly and padded up the wooden staircase in bare feet, since Lugg had not seen fit to include shoes in his emergency kit, an omission he could hardly blame the man for, as it was a decidedly unusual requirement. Lugg followed after parking the Bentley and accosted his employer in the sitting room, unable to stem his curiosity any longer.

“Supposing you come across with the details of yer evening now Guv,” he said, folding his arms across his broad stomach.

Campion sighed and shrugged his shoulders feebly. “There isn't much to tell. Your guess is as good as mine, I’m afraid. I can’t recall a single clear moment between walking out that door last night and waking up sans attire next to a car shed this morning. I suspect I’ve been robbed.”

Lugg stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to decide if Campion was having him on or not. Without his glasses, the young man’s face looked surprisingly earnest. Finally, the former burglar swore under his breath. “Wot’s this town coming to, if a man can’t go fer a walk wifout comin’ to bodily 'arm?” he said disapprovingly.

“Indeed,” Campion echoed his sentiment.

“Give us a look at yer 'ead then, there’s a good chap.” Lugg switched modes seamlessly into that of the caring nursemaid, guiding him firmly to a seat under the lamp. After a brief visual inspection and a series of questions intended to suss out the extent of his memory impairment, Lugg pronounced him fit to bathe unsupervised, so that is what he did.

Once he’d washed off the worst of the grime and gore, Campion began to feel human again, and stood at the sink, hips swaddled in a bath towel, to examine himself in the mirror there. His pale, deceptively unassuming features were reflected back at him dutifully, his fair hair damp and dishevelled from the bath. Everything seemed to be in order, but he couldn’t shake the notion that something was very wrong. His eyes, he thought, they were different, but he couldn’t pinpoint how. They were the same grey blue they’d always been, that hadn’t changed, nor was it likely to. What then? It was almost as though something or someone else was looking out through them at him. Waiting...

He shuddered.

Mentally scolding himself for entertaining such absurd notions, he shook his head and set about the process of shaving, concentrating his energies on getting his chin smooth. All the while, he kept his eyes locked on their counterparts in the mirror, as if he might catch them acting independently of himself if he watched long enough. It wasn’t until he tipped up his chin to sweep the safety razor under his jaw that he spotted it.

An unnatural green sheen flickered across his pupil as it caught the light at just the right angle. It startled him badly enough that he cut himself and dropped the razor into the sink with a hiss of pain. Instinctively, he put a finger to the cut and reached for the styptic pencil in his shaving kit to stop it bleeding. Turning his head to better see the injury in the glass, he froze mid-gesture as the wound appeared to heal itself miraculously before his eyes.

Campion stepped back from the mirror, breathing heavily, his heart beating in triple time against his breast. Vivid impressions of terrifying pain and twisting limbs flashed through his mind as he stared at himself in growing horror. _Oh God, oh God. What had happened to him? Was he going mad?_

It was Lugg’s perfunctory knock on the bathroom door that brought him back to his senses. He answered the man’s question about breakfast with something in the affirmative and finished his ablutions in record time.

By the time he joined Lugg in the kitchen to partake in the eggs and kippers on toast his surly servant had prepared, Campion’s limbs had mostly stopped shaking. He ate his food silently, nodding where appropriate at Lugg’s diatribe against the evils of the 'modern class of crim', as he called them, and how none of them took sufficient pride in their craft so as to maintain certain standards any more. If his faithful factotum noticed his unusual reticence, he refrained from commenting on the fact and let him get on with his breakfast.

Finally, when the meal was done, Lugg cocked an inquiring eye at his employer. “Will you be reportin’ last night’s adventures to the Yard then?” he asked with great solemnity.

Inwardly, Campion shuddered at the idea, suddenly afraid of what an official inquiry might unearth regarding his nocturnal activities, but he managed to maintain his composure. It would do him no good to pretend that the night had never happened. 

“I suppose that’s the sensible thing to do,” he said diffidently. “I’ll call in on Stanislaus this morning, see what he can make of it.”

Lugg nodded and that was that, he'd committed himself, like it or not.

– 

Detective Inspector Stanislaus Oates seemed only moderately pleased to see him when he arrived at the station three hours later, likely owing to their most recent adventure together, which had resulted in several of the inspector's men being sent to hospital following an enemy raid on Campion's flat. He gestured vaguely at an empty chair in front of his desk and regarded his friend with wary interest. "What can I do for you today, Campion?"

"I wish to report a crime," Campion said.

"Is that so?" Oates raised his greying eyebrows. "May I inquire as to the nature of the offence in question?"

"Oh, I should think so," Campion answered with false enthusiasm. "Robbery for starters, then I think we can add assault and perhaps kidnapping to the list."

Oates' eyes widened. "Anything else?" he asked sardonically.

"I'm sure, should you make any arrests, your bright boys in booking will be able to come up with something creative." Campion smiled.

"They might that," Oates agreed. "What's happened?"

Campion told him as much as he knew, omitting only the details of his experience with the shaving mirror that morning.

Oates looked thoughtful. "That's quite a tale, Campion. Do you think this is anything to do with that Chalice business?"

The suggestion struck a chord in the younger man, making it his turn to be pensive. “I don't know,” he said, slowly. “According to the rules of their society, Mrs. Shannon's rather dramatic exit from the field of combat should've meant the end of their involvement in the affair, but it's always possible one of the lower ranked players we failed to catch has decided to act independently.”

The inspector sat back in his chair and furrowed his brow. “We'll have you write a formal statement and I'll see if I can't spare one of my men to look into this. They hit you, you said; have you been seen by a medic?”

“Lugg did the honours. I'm fine.”

Oates looked as though he did not believe him, but he left it alone. Knowing Mr. Campion as he did, the young man seemed more shaken than he'd ever seen him, and sat uncomfortably in his chair as though preparing to make a dash for the exit at any moment. Without the large frames of his customary horn-rimmed spectacles hiding his face, his eyes looked sharp and obviously intelligent, which unnerved the old policeman for some reason he could not name.

– 

Mr. Campion's worries did not end there, with the instigation of an official police inquiry. In fact, it seemed they'd only just begun. 

Some kind soul eventually located his wallet and handed it in to the authorities, minus any funds he'd had in there, naturally. Nevertheless, he was glad to have the rest of his papers returned. Of his clothes and missing spectacles, nothing further came to light, and Campion was forced to confront the necessity of acquiring a new pair of glasses. 

Since his peculiar physical symptoms persisted beyond the morning after the incident, 'necessity' was perhaps an overstatement of the situation. As more time elapsed, there was no denying that his eyesight had substantially improved, most notably at night. He now found himself capable of distinguishing objects in what for others seemed to be almost perfect darkness, a talent he'd discovered accidentally one evening a few days after his misadventure. Upon entering a presumably empty room, Lugg had switched on a lamp to find Mr. Campion already there, reading in the near dark. The incident had startled them both, but it had taken three day's abject contrition on Campion's part to convince Lugg it hadn't been a deliberate offence. 

In spite of this miraculous new acuity, he was reluctant to forgo spectacles entirely - he'd worn the things since boyhood and grown accustomed to the odd sort of anonymity they granted him. He felt strangely exposed without them. 

The unnaturally keen sense of smell had also taken considerable getting used to. Especially strong odours could quickly become overwhelming to him now and those seemed to be in ready supply in London. He'd had to give up cigarettes entirely because of it, but was slowly learning to use the ability to his advantage. With practice, he discovered that he could identify individuals and places by their scent alone. It was easier if there were fewer people around, too many and he couldn't pick out the individual notes very reliably, but his accuracy was steadily improving. 

Altered sight and smell were hardly the most disturbing new ailments he endured, however. As the days passed without answers, still more oddities presented themselves. 

He found he was hungry all the time now, a malady reminiscent of his teen-aged years when he'd sprouted from an undersized lad of fourteen to nearly his full adult height over a period of less than eight months. Feeling oddly self-conscious about this, he took to supplementing his meals in secret, hiding the difference in his eating habits from Lugg's scrutiny. In spite of this, he still managed to lose weight somehow, shedding what little padding he'd accumulated about his midsection in his twenties, leaving naught but lean muscle behind. 

This alone should have prompted a wiser man to visit a physician, but he was still rather deeply in denial that anything was seriously wrong.

Further complicating matters, and perhaps because of the changes he'd undergone, he'd started to feel trapped and anxious in crowds, making several of his social obligations that month unexpectedly hellish. Though Campion had long ago perfected the art of moving unobserved through a gathering, he found himself retreating to the periphery more and more often, watching rather than participating. The urge to run far away from it all was becoming more powerful.

The final symptom manifested itself when a merchant handed him change not long after the incident. It was an otherwise perfectly ordinary transaction, yet as soon as the coins had touched his hand, he'd yelped in surprise and pain, and dropped them to the ground as though they were burning embers, clutching his injured hand to his chest defensively. The man behind the counter had simply stared at him in perplexed alarm. Embarrassed, Campion had stooped to pick up the scattered coins with a handkerchief and fled the premises with red welts on his palm.

Experimentation proved that the offending item in the lot was a battered shilling dated 1919 that burned when he touched it with his bare skin. The other coins, all of more recent vintage, merely itched uncomfortably when he held them in his hand. A quick test with a few of the items in the sideboard confirmed the diagnosis – he'd suddenly developed an acute allergy to silver.

A superstitious hypothesis formed in his mind at this discovery, but Campion refused to entertain it. Instead, he carried on with his life and work as best he could under the circumstances. 

It wasn't all bad news. He had some minor successes, such as when he traced a would-be blackmailer by her perfume alone in early August, and later in the month chased down a fleeing art thief without even becoming winded. When he ran, he'd felt alive, vital, like he'd never felt before. He'd almost been disappointed when he'd caught up with the man, because it meant he'd had to stop. 

As the days passed, a restless energy consumed his every waking hour, keeping him in nigh constant motion. He felt as though he was waiting for something to happen, but he didn't quite know – or didn't want to know – what it was.

– 

The evening of August the 20th found Mr. Campion at home. He'd been pacing the floor of his sitting room for half the afternoon, stealing anxious glances out of the window on every pass, when Lugg finally grew tired of watching his silent brooding and interrupted him.

“Wot's gotten into you lad? You've bin actin' fishy, like sumthin's got yer wind up for the best part of a month now, don' think I 'aven't noticed.” He sniffed. “S'not drugs, is it? Figgered yer clever enough to steer clear o' them, but I seen unlikelier chaps get in o'er their 'eads wif that muck.”

Campion paused in his well-worn route across the carpet and laughed. There was a hysterical edge to the sound. 

Lugg's face coloured. “I'm bein' serious 'ere,” he said with wounded dignity.

Campion sat down heavily in the nearest upholstered chair, his hands gripping the armrests a trifle desperately. “No, I've not taken to doping clandestinely in my spare time. If only it were that simple.” His pale eyes were wild with barely disguised panic behind his plain glass spectacles. “I think I'm going mad.”

Lugg had the decency to look concerned. “Come orf it, it can't be that bad, whatever it is.”

“Must be, if I'm starting to believe in fairy stories,” Campion muttered, more to himself than Lugg. “She cursed me, you know,” he added almost conversationally.

“Oo did?” Lugg asked.

“Mrs. Munsey. The local madwoman stroke witch at Sanctuary. The one who sent you trembling to your bed with that monstrous display in the wood and Lady Pethwick to an early grave.”

Lugg glowered. “Now look 'ere...” he started to say, but Campion kept speaking.

“I didn't take much stock of it at the time; just a lot of hocus pocus nonsense to try and scare us off, I thought.” He shook his head and took off his spectacles, setting them carefully on the table beside him. “But now I'm wondering if Mrs. Munsey didn't get the last laugh after all.”

The older man was having difficulty following Campion's oblique line of thought, and peered at him worriedly, his dark eyes narrowed under ponderous brows. “Not sure wot yer getting' at Guv'nor,” he said, cautiously.

“Neither am I,” Campion answered and unfolded his long legs to stand.

“Now where d'you think yer goin'?” Lugg asked, moving to block him.

“Out,” Campion said. His expression was pained, minute beads of sweat starting to form at his hairline.

“Not right now you ain't. Not until you explain yerself.” Lugg remained obstinately in the way.

“I can't, old boy, let me go.” His voice was strained but firm. Campion put out a hand, intending to push Lugg aside if he had to, but aborted the gesture, doubling over suddenly, as if he'd just been dealt a punishing blow. He made a wheezing sound as though all of the air had been forced from his lungs. 

Lugg stepped forward, alarmed. “Bert?”

Still bent over, Campion hissed through clenched teeth. “Get out of the way, Lugg. Before something happens that we'll both regret.”

Mr. Lugg held his ground, and what happened next would haunt him for the rest of his days. 

Campion raised his head to meet Lugg's gaze and as he did, his eyes changed, their blue pigment fading away to be replaced by a burnished gold colour. Lugg blanched, heart lodging in his throat, and stumbled back from him.

The desperate young man took the opening offered him and bolted from the room, disappearing down the narrow staircase. Lugg heard the door downstairs slam shut behind him.

– 

Mr. Campion ran blindly through the streets of Piccadilly, heading vaguely west in the hopes of reaching Hyde Park before he lost control. Now that the moment was upon him again, some of the lost details of his misadventure the previous month were returning to him. He could tell that he was running out of time. 

It was less than a mile to the boundary of the park, but every second that passed brought him closer to the edge of losing himself. He could feel his insides twisting painfully in his abdomen. It hurt to breathe, let alone move, but he couldn't stop yet. Not here. It was still early, too many people were out and about, enjoying the summer evening under the bright moonlit sky.

Whether it was by luck or divine providence, Campion made it safely to the confines of the park. Leaving the path, he wove drunkenly through the trees, searching for a reasonably secluded location to complete his transformation. He knew what was coming now.

Stripping off frantically beneath the branches of a suitably isolated tree, Campion scraped a rough hole in the earth near its roots and buried his wallet there, with the hope of retrieving it later. His clothes, he balled up in a hopefully inconspicuous packet and shoved under a nearby shrub with his shoes. 

A thick sheen of sweat covered his skin as he dropped to his knees in the sparse grass. Violent spasms racked his body; he could feel his bones shifting and rearranging themselves. As the mind-numbing agony of the process seized him, Albert Campion had one final conscious thought. He wondered irrelevantly at what _possible_ explanation he could have given a police constable if one had chanced to find him here like this.

– 

Campion returned to the Bottle Street flat just after dawn the next morning. He was dirty and dishevelled, but wearing his own clothes, his gambit in stashing them in the park having paid off. He found Lugg waiting up for him, collar off, sitting at the table facing the door. A half-finished tumbler of whiskey and a revolver lay before him.

“This would seem an appropriate moment for a certain Shakespearian anecdote,” Mr. Campion said lightly. “Or perhaps not,” he amended upon seeing Lugg's unchanged expression. “May I sit, or were you planning on using that on me?” He indicated the gun on the table.

When Lugg didn't reply he nattered on. “I must say, I don't think it'd do you much good if you were. Unless those are silver bullets?”

That got a reaction. “Gawd, do you ever lissen to yerself? 'Ow can you just stand there talkin' like nuffin's wrong?”

“I'm sorry,” Campion said sincerely. He pulled out a chair to a respectful distance and sat on it deliberately, facing Lugg. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looked at his hands. There was blood under his fingernails. “I'd only just worked it out for myself. It isn't the sort of conclusion one first jumps to.”

Lugg grunted in agreement.

Campion rolled his shoulders and looked up into the face of his friend and henchman. His eyes were serious and icy blue. “The spectre in the wood was faked; I hardly expected the lady's words to have any real power to them. Anyone can deliver a fright. It's quite another thing to change a man into a werewolf out of spite.”

Lugg flinched at this admission. It confirmed one of the more gruesome theories his imagination had conjured up while he'd waited apprehensively for his master's return. He collected himself with some effort and regarded his employer coldly. 

“I suppose you expec' me to wail an' carry on then? Well I'm not gorna. I'm not afraid of you,” he said mendaciously. “Knew you was 'eaded fer trouble, always meddlin' with things you ought not wifout a care in your 'ead fer the consequences. It's come back to bite you now, 'asn't it?”

“Quite literally,” Campion remarked dryly.

Lugg eyed him disapprovingly. “Jus' so's you know, this is me, tenderin' my notice of resignation. For real this time. I don' mind the odd job that's not strictly on the up 'n up, but I draw the line at associatin' wit the supernat'ral. An' I'll not stand for 'arborin' no murderer, friend or no.”

Mr. Campion was aghast. “I'm not a monster, Lugg.” He paused, re-evaluating the validity of that statement. By some lights, he was exactly that. “Well, I haven't been out eating people all night, if that's what you're thinking. Scout's honour.”

“'Ow would you know?” Lugg's tone was accusatory.

“Believe it or not, I can actually recall most of what's happened this time. It's a bit hazy, but I think I've got the high points. I'd definitely remember something gruesome like that. You've got the wrong idea about me entirely. Despite their folkloric reputation, _real_ wolves don't regularly prey on humanity, and you know me - I've hardly a bloodthirsty personality on even my darkest days. Doubtless there are a few rabbits and squirrels who will disagree with me on this assessment,” he glanced down at his bloodied hands again, “but I'm not a killer.”

There was a long pause while Lugg digested this information. Then, whether it was the strain or the sheer absurdity of the situation, Lugg's composure finally cracked. “Squirrels?” He laughed, long and hard, shaking the table and nearly spilling his drink. Campion joined him after a fashion and the tension drained from the room. Eventually they settled down and Lugg wiped his eyes with a handkerchief.

“Cor, now there's a picture,” he said, still wheezing from laughing. “I'll be rememberin' that nex' time you criticize my cookin'. Set you out of the 'ouse to catch yer own supper if you don' like what I give you.”

Campion did his best not to look indignant; at least Lugg was no longer talking of leaving him.

“All right, cock, you're right, I can't reely see you 'urting innocent folks so long as you've still got some of yer wits about you. What're you goin' to do 'bout this curse then?” he asked.

Campion thought for a moment. “Suffolk. We go to Suffolk.” He stood to go see about cleaning himself up.

“Eh?” Lugg was startled. “Wot, now?”

“Bath and breakfast first, I should think," said Campion sensibly. "Then I feel I ought to make an appointment to see a witch.”

– 

It took some calling, but eventually Campion tracked down the parson friend of Professor Cairey, Pembroke, who was able to direct him to the facility where Mrs. Munsey and her son Sammy had been taken. It was a small charity care home in a neighbouring village to Sanctuary.

When they arrived, Campion left Lugg with the car, while he went in to see her alone. Given what she'd done to Campion over a few pointed questions, he thought it best to keep his man out of the line of fire, so to speak. This arrangement suited the old coward just fine. 

The nurse on duty directed him to a small bedroom at the back of the house, where he found his quarry, looking much cleaner than when he'd last encountered her, but nonetheless still bald and toothless. She sat in an ancient rocking chair, staring out the window blankly. Her rags had been replaced with well worn hand-me-downs that made her look much less dangerous than Campion knew her to be. Nevertheless, the sight of her again made his inner hackles raise.

“Hello, Mrs. Munsey,” he said politely. “I'm Albert Campion. We met in Pharisees' Clearing two months ago. Do you remember me?”

The old crone turned her head at the sound of his voice and looked through, rather than at, him. She gave no sign of recognition and made no reply.

Campion blinked at her owlishly from behind his glasses and continued. “I've come to ask you to undo whatever it is you've done to me.” The witch didn't move. He came nearer and crouched awkwardly at her side to get closer to her level. “Please, Mrs. Munsey, I'd like my life back.” He was not above pleading with the woman, if necessary.

At last, her eyes flickered up to his face and a horrible, wicked smile crept across her features. She laughed. “Told you,” she cackled, “I knew more'n you think. Nobody believe me.”

“Yes, well, I believe you now, I can assure you,” he said earnestly. “Please, I've kept my promise, no harm has befallen you or your son as a result of the questions we asked you about Lady Pethwick. Sammy is safe here with you. I saw him as I came in. He looks well.”

Mrs. Munsey eyed him carefully and reluctantly took his hand, turning it over to examine his palm. Campion tried not to flinch at her cold touch, though it made his skin crawl. After a moment, she shook her head and released him. “Nuthin' to be done. It be in ye now. Ye've seen more'n one moon. By blood and bone, yer bound,” she recited.

Mr. Campion protested and her eyes danced with satisfaction as she regarded him. His dismay obviously amused her. She only laughed harder when frustration dropped his voice to a heretofore uncommon growl.

“See? See?” she crowed. “Part of ye now. Larnt your lesson I 'ope. Go 'way an' leave me be. Spirits take ye as they like, nuthin' to do with me no more.” Then she began howling at him until he retreated from the room, red faced and rattled.

Once outside, Campion had to stop to compose himself, leaning against the gate. True anger was a rare emotion in him and he found to his horror that his new condition presented an unexpected danger to losing his equanimity. He fought back against an overwhelming instinct to change, shed his human shape, and express his fury with tooth and claw. The irony that he'd only hours ago assured Lugg that he was as near to harmless as could be rankled at him, giving him the strength of will to suppress the violent urge. He returned to the car once he'd successfully regained control of himself.

Having witnessed his display of manful determination from the confines of the aged Bentley, but blissfully unaware of its full import, Lugg looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

Campion shook his head. “No luck. The lady was unsympathetic to my plight.” He clapped a reassuring hand on Lugg's shoulder to forestall the man's disappointed reaction. “Don't think this means I've given up, my dear old bird. I'll find a cure. You'll just have to put up with my monthly moonlit constitutionals for a while longer, that's all.”

Mr. Campion presented his companion with his best wolfish smile.


End file.
